


Clockwork

by broi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Theon, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snark, Theon starting stuff he can't finish, Top!Jon, or maybe he can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Theon loves getting a rise out of Jon Snow. In every sense of the word.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I needed a break from the angst that is Into Many A Green Valley, and a break from real life, really, so here's a nice PWP with whore!Theon and a top!Jon for once which I rarely write. Jon sort of took on a life of his own here. Utter filth that man is when he gets going.

These are the reasons Theon enjoys winding Jon up:

1) He is easy to wind up.

2) He doesn’t look vaguely hurt like Robb does whenever Theon winds him up. No, Jon looks angry. And fuck, Theon has a thing for Jon when he is angry.

3) It usually ends in fucking. And Theon likes fucking. He is Ironborn, after all. It’s in his blood.

****

“Snow, why are you trying to fight it? You know you want me to fuck you. There’s nobody around. Bet you’ve been thinking it all afternoon. I know I’m bored to all seven hells doing this fucking job. Come on, just lie back on the straw and take it like a good little bitch.”

“Shut up, Greyjoy. Father said we have to get these training swords sorted by nightfall. You may be workshy but some of us are not.”

“You’re very serious today, Snow. Is it your moon’s blood?”

“I swear it, Theon: I will strike you if I have to. Take this sword and put it in the pile for the smith to do.”

“ _Fine._ ” Theon deposits the sword disinterestedly in a pile near the armoury door. He glances around outside for a moment, grins to himself. _Snow’s about to crack,_ he thinks. When he returns, Jon’s stretched over the remaining swords, reaching for one the furthest away from his grasp. Theon takes a long, glorious look. “Oh, don’t move, Snow. Keep it raised up in the air, just how I like it. It’s like a little plum. For a bastard, you’ve got a lovely arse.”

“For a hostage, you’ve got a dangerous mouth.”

Theon smirks, flicking back his dark fringe. “You should know, Snow. Barely have to breathe on your cock and you’re spending like a green boy.”

Jon freezes, and Theon knows he’s got him the minute Jon speaks. “At least you understand your place is on your knees with my seed on your face.” 

“Funny,” Theon muses. “Judging by the other evening’s affairs, I thought you’d rather my place is having you bent backwards over the log pile in the barn with my cock up your arse.” He feels a swell of malevolent delight as Jon colours pink. “Ah, yes. That’s more like it, isn’t it, Snow? What you want.”

“So I’m hard, Greyjoy. What are you going to do about it?”

“Whatever I want,” replies Theon, “because you’ll let me. You’re so eager for it that you’ll allow me to do anything, to put it anywhere, just as long as I let you come at the end of it. Poor Jon Snow, so desperate for love.”

Theon rather hoped this would get a rise out of Jon – perhaps so that he’d get that dark, fierce look in his eye that turns Theon on so much, or so that he’d slam Theon back against the wall and teach him how to be quiet – so it’s generally quite alarming that Jon neither smoulders nor slams, and instead smiles. 

“Oh Theon,” Jon mutters with a smirk, “you _love_ me?”

“ _What_?” Theon feels a flush rise through his chest and up his throat – an embarrassing, hot and _very_ red flush that Jon would have to be fucking _blind_ not to notice. “Of course I don’t love you. I could never love a man who is more precious about his hair than Sansa is—”

“I think, Lord Greyjoy, that you must love me,” Jon continues, rising from the floor, swords forgotten, advancing slowly on Theon like a wolf. It’s always a _fucking_ wolf. Robb’s like it too, quiet and sinister and dangerous, and Jon’s no less of a wolf even though he’s a Snow and oh gods, Theon _wants it_. “Why else would you let me spill my bastard seed all over those Ironborn lips if you didn’t love me? For you can’t possibly _enjoy_ it, can you, Theon? You must be doing it to please me. To enjoy it would be a woman’s work. And I didn’t think Ironborn men did the work of women.”

Theon moans in both irritation and arousal, which he didn’t think was possible. Well, he didn’t think it was possible before he started fucking Jon Snow and Robb Stark, anyway.

“Yes, you Ironborn whore,” mutters Jon, so quietly Theon can barely hear him. “Moan for me like a bitch. What do you call them? Salt wives. You going to be my salt wife, Greyjoy? You going to offer me your mouth? Your lovely pale arse? Gods, Theon, I feel as though I could bite it. Turn around.”

“What in seven hells has got into you, Snow?” Theon asks. His cock is throbbing against his breeches so much that it _hurts_. Some days it’s an effort to get Jon to even say whether he’s enjoying himself. Usually it’s Robb who gets it out of him, and even then it’s only the bare minimum. _”Do you like Theon’s mouth round your cock, Jon?” “Yes.” “Tell Theon to take you deeper into his mouth, Jon.” “Take me – fuck, take me deeper, Theon.” “Ask him nicely, Jon.” “Take me deeper, NOW.”_ Robb and Theon had always been able to do enough speaking for the three of them, but whenever Jon speaks it _does something_ to Theon that just sends him wild. Whatever had bloomed within Jon to make him talk like this, Theon wants more of it. 

“Yes, that fucking arse of yours,” mutters Jon in Theon’s ear. He runs his hand over the curve of Theon’s backside, slaps it, _hard_ , so hard that Theon’s grateful he’s wearing breeches. “If you must know, _you’ve_ got into me. You had your hand on Robb’s cock at dinner.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t you ‘ _ah_ ’ me unless you’re going to keep your mouth open and do something useful with it,” Jon mutters. _He’s unlacing his breeches, I can hear him,_ Theon thinks, licking his lips. “Get on your knees, Greyjoy.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then I won’t fuck you at all, and I’ll see to it that Robb doesn’t either.”

“You _are_ a bastard.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Call me that again, and I’ll take Robb with my cock and all the fingers he can bear, I’ll look you in your fucking eye as I do it, and I’ll make you watch with your wrists tied behind your back. Now, on your knees,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Theon kneels. Of course he fucking kneels. 

“Good boy,” mutters Jon. He runs a hand through Theon’s dark hair. He can’t help but close his eyes at Jon’s touch. His breeches are starting to become exceptionally uncomfortable. “You know, if anybody in Winterfell has hair to rival mine, it’s you, Greyjoy.”

“And you say _I’m_ the maid?”

Jon takes a tight hold of Theon’s hair which snaps him out of his reverie because it fucking _hurts._ And Theon fucking _likes it._

“Shame I’m about to ruin your pretty hair with my seed, isn’t it?”

Theon’s breath hitches at the thought. “You – you wouldn’t—”

“Don’t forget, I saw you with your hand on Robb’s cock. I was all the way at the other end of the table, Greyjoy. That was very selfish of you. Do you know how hard I was, watching that?”

“I’d imagine – I’d imagine very hard,” Theon breathes. The bulge in Jon’s half-undone breeches is inches from his face. He palms at his own cock through the fabric, desperate to grasp it properly, but what would Jon do if Theon did that? 

“Yes, I was very hard,” replies Jon. He keeps his hand tightly wound in Theon’s hair, but uses his other one to slowly unlace his breeches. “And I’m going to show you just how hard I was. How far can you swallow cock, Theon?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Robb’s, barely halfway. Yours, on the other hand? I can suck yours right back and still have room for your little bastard’s balls. _Ouch_ , fuck….”

“If you don’t want me to pull your hair, you’re going the wrong way about it,” murmurs Jon. A smile plays on his face. A smile that worries Theon a great deal, for he has tried everything from calling Jon a bastard to insulting the size of his manhood, yet he still isn’t losing his temper enough to give Theon what he really wants. “Anybody watching would think you like this, Greyjoy. That you like pain. That you want me to get angry with you.”

“I’d like you to stop fucking around and get on with it,” replies Theon, “because my cock is aching, Jon. Honestly. I want you so much when you’re like this.”

“Good, honest little boy,” Jon says, stroking Theon’s hair. “Dirty, desperate boy. What are we going to do with you? Which of your holes needs my cock the most?”

 _All of them,_ thinks Theon, _over and over again until I am broken, covered in your seed, unable to move._ But his mouth says, “None of them _need_ you, Snow. I just happen to enjoy this sport we have together, is all.”

“Is that right?” says Jon. He frees his cock from his breeches and it springs up, proud and red, glistening already with a bead of pre-come, and Theon moans before he can stop himself. “I think your mouth needs it the most, judging from the look in your eyes. And when you’ve shown me that you can swallow my cock to the back of your throat like a good boy, I’ll lie you on that bed of straw over there and give you all four fingers in your arse as you suck me dry.”

“Seven _hells,_ Jon…” 

Theon can’t look anywhere but at that lovely jewel of pre-come on the end of Jon’s cock, begging to be tasted. He licks his lips over and over, but nothing can satiate the need he has to feel the head of that wonderful cock sliding between his lips, or the sensation of swirling his tongue around the tiny hole, lapping up all of that delicious seed. 

“You have such pretty hair, Theon,” murmurs Jon, brushing it back from Theon’s eyes. “But I want to see your eyes as you suck my cock. And don’t think calling you pretty means you’re forgiven. If you so much as undo your breeches, so much as _graze_ your own cock with your fingers, you’ll wish you hadn’t.” 

“Yes, Jon,” mutters Theon (like the bitch he is, unfortunately, but he can’t help the fact he is a sexual being) and then Jon says _good boy, here you go,_ and with such gentle ease, slides his cock into Theon’s mouth.

Theon manages to go slowly at first. He even takes time over it; tightens his lips to be taut as they run over the sensitive head of Jon’s cock (Theon loves this) and ensures it’s tighter, deeper, with every noise that Jon makes. Theon’s a moaner whereas Jon is definitely a grunter, and Theon _likes_ this as there’s something about hearing Jon huff and grunt as though he’s doing his best not to give in to the inevitable need that lies within. Theon wishes he wasn’t a moaner because it makes him sound like a mewling whore, and this thought makes him harder still (harder, and more ashamed). Robb is a bit of a wailer and a pleader, which is fantastic in its way, and another layer to their dynamic as of course both Jon and Theon are far too proud to beg.

“Please, Snow, I’m begging you,” Theon gasps, as Jon releases his grip on Theon’s hair to allow him some air, “You’re going to have to fuck me at some point, because these are my best breeches and I will come in them. I will come in them, I swear it, and I’m not sure you want that on your conscience.”

“I think my conscience is just fine,” growls Jon, and all at once Theon’s mouth is filled again and Jon is starting to give in, he is _giving in_ and Theon loves it, loves the sensation of Jon’s strong hand at the back of his head pushing his mouth all the way to the base of his cock, holding it there so Theon can barely breathe. 

Once, Theon had wound Jon up so much during one of their times together with Robb that Jon had taken him by the throat and held him tightly as Robb fucked him, and Theon felt as though he were on a cloud. His body had been sort of gone, and only pleasure remained. Then Robb’s voice had said, “don’t kill him, Jon!” and he’d come back to where they were, on furs in front of the fire in Theon’s chamber, and Theon remembers vividly Jon sitting back on his knees, his cock standing proud, his face in shock. 

_”I don’t know why I did that.”_

_”Because I said Robb’s cock fills me better than yours,”_ Theon had coughed. _”Now, do I need to say it again? Fill me up, Jon. Make me choke on your cock.”_

“Going to --- going to spend,” Jon grunts. 

_No, no. Not yet. You can’t._ It’s difficult, but Theon manages to twist his mouth away from Jon’s cock long enough to gasp, “You promised me your fingers.”

“Breeches off,” mutters Jon. “Lie between my legs. Get your knees up to your chest and spread your fucking arse, Theon. And suck my fingers. Get them nice and wet like you’re earning coin for it. Don’t make that face at me; if you didn’t want to be made a whore you wouldn’t be here.”

Theon takes all of Jon’s fingers into his mouth at once, slurping at them greedily, dirtily. The sound is obscene and Theon can barely contain himself watching Jon’s head roll back, his left hand working his cock and his right in Theon’s mouth. 

“Gonna put all these fingers into that whore’s cunt of an arse of yours,” Jon murmurs, hooking his fingers into Theon’s cheek (making him spread his lips like a desperate slut, most probably), “and if you’re lucky I’m going to spill my seed all over your stretched hole – fuck – gods, Theon, you look incredible—”

“Get them inside me,” moans Theon (oh, why the fuck does he always _moan_ , but he can’t help it, he _wants_ and he _needs_ so badly). “Get them inside me, now.”

“Dirty boy,” grunts Jon, his fist moving more and more rapidly around his cock. “Dirty, needy little slut.” He leans down and with his slick fingers on his free hand, he teases around Theon’s opening for just seconds before pushing them inside.

“Fuck -- _ow_ \--”

“Am I hurting you?” Jon’s eyes, though still darkened with lust, flash concern.

“I can take it,” Theon gasps. _I can take more._ “Curl your fingers,” he groans. “Oh gods, yes. You know how I like it.”

“I know how you like it,” echoes Jon. His movements are jerky now, and Theon knows this means he will spend soon. _No matter,_ he thinks. _So will I._

Theon’s hands, still spreading his arse for Jon’s fingers, are starting to itch to take hold of his cock. _Some friction, at least,_ he thinks. _Jon won’t mind. He can’t mind._

“Get those hands back on your arse,” Jon growls immediately. “You are going to take my fingers in your tight, whorish little hole until you can’t bear it, and you shall watch me spill my seed all over your arse and your belly and that pretty hair of yours, and only when the last drop has -- _ah!_ \-- the last drop has left me, will I then let you touch your cock. Understand?”

“ _Jon_ …” Theon’s voice is a long, desperate moan. 

“ _Understand?_ ”

“No – you don’t – fuck, I’m going to _come_ \--”

And Theon is coming, _hard_ , all up his chest and some hits his chin, his face, and he hadn’t even been _touched_ , what a fucking _whore_ he is, what a desperate, dirty slut….

“Seven hells,” hisses Jon and spends, grunting through his release, gasping at the great strings of his seed painting Theon’s raw, spit-slick arsehole, his belly, and Jon’s own hands.

“You asked me once why I take pleasure in winding you up,” Theon gasps breathlessly, bringing one of his hands up to his mouth. He sucks away a glob of Jon’s come (or was it his own? He doesn’t much care, if he’s honest. His father would be so proud). “That. That is why.”

“Ass,” mutters Jon under his breath. But Theon sees him smile, and smiles back.


End file.
